Of Devils and Saints
by CaspianRose
Summary: He had been out here nearly a year - that should have been more than long enough for him to learn to watch his step. / Young Grant Ward one shot. Set one year after John Garrett left him in Wyoming.


_Crunch! _It was the sound more than anything that sent him to the ground. His heart flew up into his mouth only to be stopped by his teeth. Then the pain came. In the moment that it took him to find the source, it felt as if he had lived an eternity.

He howled in complete agony as he tried to draw his leg closer to him. The chain dangling behind the metal mouth prevented that however. Without remorse, the maw of the beast had wrapped its pointed teeth around his calf, digging in hungrily.

Instinctively he grabbed at the jaws, attempting to pull them apart. With the hope of achieving freedom, he sliced his hands open instead. He hissed and felt a groan of anguish and anger well up from the pit of his stomach. He let it out and swore the sound shook the trees.

He had been out here nearly a year - that should have been more than long enough for him to learn to watch his step. Damn it! He took a deep breath, calmed his mind, shoved the pain down, and looked at the metal trap. It was the largest he had ever seen out here. He would have assumed hunters left it but the unbidden thought that this was another test nagged at him. The trap had not been there yesterday… He pushed down on the sides with all his might, biting the inside of his cheek against the release of pressure as the teeth lifted off his leg.

He pried the jaws apart just enough to move his leg. When his strength failed him the teeth snapped back, creating new painful wounds. He screamed in equal parts frustration and suffering. He brought his hands to cover his eyes; leaves stuck to the blood and scratched his face. He was going to die out here and only God knew when the Devil would be back.

Something wet nuzzled the back of his hands and licked at the blood. He pushed his elbow out to shoo the wet nose away - he didn't want comfort. He didn't deserve it. The nose insisted though and Grant soon found himself with his arms wrapped around the warm neck of his only friend. He buried his face into the chocolate brown fur, while Buddy allowed Grant to take reassurance in him. The dog knew what he needed.

The idea of night stretched out before him and wolves and bears tore at Grant's mind. Surely, they wouldn't balk at such an easy meal. He checked the pistol. He cursed himself. _Stupid, worthless, garbage -_ the words circled his mind. He tried to tell himself that he could not have known this would happen. That he did as told and practiced his aim. But he blamed himself - it was easier that way. It was familiar. If there was no one to blame he couldn't hurt them. One shot left.

If he survived this, he would never be foolish enough to leave the spare bullets behind. _One shot left_. He spit blood from his torn cheek. He did not want to be ungrateful for his single bullet, after all - wasn't he supposed to be grateful for everything? However, he had to be realistic. Should a bear happen upon his vulnerable position, the chances of his one shot killing it were nearly nonexistent. If he were logical about it - he could not spare it in his defense. The lone bullet he needed for himself - when the dehydration and pain became too much for him to take. Or the beasts came. His lips quivered at the thought and he bit down on them. Control, he had to be in control of himself.

As the hours crawled by and the darkness curtained around him, he suffered. Every sound threatened him, even when the dog sat passively, unaffected by the noise. He stared at the pistol - preparing himself.

Grant couldn't be positive if he fell asleep or passed out in the early dawn hours. Maybe it was the comforting warmth of Buddy pressed against his side or the loss of blood clouding his thoughts, that allowed sleep to ease him away. He didn't have time to analyze that when Buddy's barking woke him.

His reaction time was not quick, his right hand unsteadily raised the pistol and the left tried and failed to grab Buddy. The dog moved out of his reach while Grant quietly pleaded for him to come back. He felt himself shaking when he pointed the pistol at Buddy. He did not think he could watch helplessly while the dog gave its life in defense of him. He would show mercy even at cost to himself.

"Shit, Ward! What the hell did you do?" The profanity that came from the Saint's mouth did not surprise Grant. Saint not Devil. His salvation - his savior - had drawn nigh.

"Garrett," Grant lowered the weapon.

"How long have you been out here?" Garrett asked, crouching down examining the trap.

Grant suppressed a yell when Garrett twisted the trap slightly. He knew that had been unnecessary. "Since yesterday," Grant said, teeth clenched.

Garrett's chuckle made Grant's stomach churn. He watched while Garrett stood and walk away, "Wait! Where are you going?"

Garrett turned to face him, "Don't whine, boy. It makes you even more pathetic." He gave a sharp whistle, instructing the dog to follow him.

Humiliated, Grant waited for Buddy to leave him as well. Was he too pathetic to bother with anymore? Had Garrett had enough of him? _Stupid, worthless, garbage, pathetic._ Buddy sat down and looked at Garrett, who called for him a second time. Buddy lay down, resuming his place beside Grant.

Garrett looked disgusted as he left and Grant was sure he heard him mutter 'To hell with it' under his breath. Grant could not quite place the feeling that squirmed in his chest as he scratched the dog's back, but he felt like it belonged there somehow. It was welcome to stay as long as it wanted.

As time passed, he tried to tell himself that it did not matter. The Devil left, Buddy stayed, and he was going to die. But it didn't matter. What would the world lose if a worthless piece of trash died in the woods anyway? His only consolation was the thought of the hunters' facial expressions when they found him in their trap. If it was hunters that is. The Devil enjoyed tests and games…

When Garrett returned, Buddy did not bark. The only signal Grant had was the crunch of the leaves and twigs. Garrett did not tread lightly. He wondered what Garrett would do if he once again pointed a loaded gun at him but didn't hesitate. Waste of a bullet he told himself.

John Garrett knelt down, this time with two large C clamps. He handed one to Grant, while he slipped the other around the spring. "I'll tighten this end, you tighten that end."

Grant tried hard to curtail the sounds coming from the back of his throat and to avoid the repugnance in Garrett's eyes when that proved impossible. The removal of the trap was excruciatingly long and each twist of the clamps nauseated him a little more. The turning also broke open the cuts on his hands and soon they were so slick with fresh blood that Grant could hardly twist the screw. Garrett would not help with his assigned side; Grant knew and didn't bother to ask.

Finally, the jaws were wide enough for his leg to wiggle out and Grant Ward fell to his back in a rush of relief and exhaustion. Garrett wrapped an ace bandage tightly around the chewed up part of his leg and pulled him roughly to his feet. The leg wouldn't hold weight. Grant almost collapsed from the pain of it.

Garrett didn't appear to notice. He found a stick for Grant to lean against and motioned for him to follow. Grant hobbled back to his camp while Garrett told some grossly over-exaggerated escapade that had kept him away. "But fortunately for you, I got back just in time."

Grant smiled weakly at his savior. He buried all thoughts of a _test_ deep inside where he kept all the things he didn't care to remember. He silently chastised himself for thinking of Garrett as the Devil. The man had again rescued him from the bowels of hell - he was a Saint.

...

_A/N_

_Set one year after Garrett left Grant in Wyoming. Hopefully it stays true to young Grant's character. Thank you for reading._


End file.
